


Turn The Light Out And Say Goodnight, No Thinking For A Little While

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of conversion therapy, Romance, Series 6 headcanon, Thomas deserves a happy ending damnit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:19:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy can't read or write. Thomas teaches him. Andy teaches Thomas something back.</p><p>Or, alternatively: they get together amidst wonky pencil letters and a bucket load of angst because Thomas is an oblivious idiot (but he's forgiven.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn The Light Out And Say Goodnight, No Thinking For A Little While

**Author's Note:**

> Title from fake empire by the national  
> based on a prompt from tumblr but I'm buggered if I can actually find it now.  
> I think they still had slates then.  
> Oh well, maybe historically inaccurate
> 
> EDIT: FOUND IT!!! http://flippyspoon.tumblr.com/post/126992761401/ok-but-what-if-andys-secret-is-hes-dyslexic

For some reason, when he left school at 12 Thomas had kept his slate and pencil. He had no idea why, but was now glad he did. It had come in handy- thankfully surviving three different houses, a war and a fall off his desk- and now was clutched in Andy Parker's long fingers as he carefully and meticulously drew a big and small 'a' on the black surface.

"And there are five vowels," Thomas explained, lighting a cigarette. "A is the first one."

"What's a vowel?" Andy asked, frowning as he rubbed out his shaky lines and tried again without looking at the alphabet book left behind by Miss Sybbie.

"The opposite of a consonant or... something. Don't worry- hardly anyone knows."

The younger man frowned a bit more as the thin white scratches went wonky, "I think I messed up."

"Let's have a look," he took the slate and inspected it as best he could in the dim light. The letters _were_ a bit messy and looked more appropriate for a four year old than a fully-grown footman, but it was obvious what they were. "Nah, they're fine. Bit more practice and a proper piece of paper and pen and no one will be able to tell the difference."

"You think?" and Thomas would have made a snarky comment at that but he was tired and it was Andy. So instead he gave an affirmative mumble and turned the page to 'b for bear'.

\---

Even if he would never admit to it, Thomas had a soft side. Especially for anyone else in an underdog position like himself. So when he had found the newest footman in the yard one evening after dinner, near to tears, he had asked what was wrong. And, as it happened, Andy couldn't read. Or write. And was worried that Carson would soon put upon him a task which required one, or both, of those skills.

"Didn't they have a school where you lived?" he had asked, awkwardly pressing a handkerchief into the younger's hand in case of actual crying.

"It closed- a storm happened and a tree fell on the roof. There was no money to fix it and we had to either go to a different one or be taught at home. Except it was too far to the other one and my mum couldn't read or write either. My dad said he would teach me but he was always working."

He sniffed, blinked a bit, "What am I going to do, Mr Barrow? They're not going to want to employ just... some stupid idiot who can't do anything involving letters. They'll fire me and then, then I don't know what I'll do."

"I'll teach you to read," Thomas found himself saying. "Once you can read writing's actually quite easy. You're a clever lad, won't take you long to learn the basics."

Another sniff, "You won't tell anyone, will you Mr Barrow? I don't want people thinking I'm stupid."

"Don't worry- I'm good at keeping secrets."

That got him a tiny laugh, "Thank you, Mr Barrow. Genuinely."

Thomas rolled his eyes in a put-upon air, "Get to bed, Andy. Come to my room after dinner tomorrow and I'll start teaching you." But, really, it did feel nice to be thanked for something.

\---

Andy looked over the part-filled piece of paper with his carefully pencilled letters, from 'a' to 'f' and Thomas's scruffy doodles next to each letter. "A quarter of the alphabet on your first night- said you were a smart lad, didn't I?" Thomas muttered.

"Thanks again, Thomas," Andy replied, cheeks dusted pink even in the dim light. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I'm sure you'd survive," he lit another cigarette and went over to close the window. "Daisy wouldn't mind tutoring you, I'm sure." At that, Andy's looked at the floor, shuffling his feet and Thomas felt his hopes sink slightly. "Or Mosley, idiot though he might be."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust and Thomas smirked. Some things never changed.

Andy yawned and a glance at the clock showed he really should be getting to bed, "Goodnight, Thomas. Can I come again tomorrow night too?"

"Of course. Night, Andy."

He left and Thomas changed for bed, extinguished his cigarette and climbed under the covers. After staring at the grubby ceiling for the best part of half an hour, a few stray tears leaked out. The fear of Carson assigning him work involving reading was only half of Andy's problem. He wanted to impress Daisy; because he liked her.

It wasn't, the under butler reflected, even anything to do with the fact that he himself might want a relationship with the footman. (Which he might do, but Thomas had mellowed and he was just as content with a friendship because he didn't have many of those.) No, it was the fact that once Andy had made his interest in Daisy clear, they would spend more and more time together and Thomas would have to watch as another friend slowly left him behind. And he would be left, the lonely under butler of Downton Abbey with no friends to see regularly and no partner to warm his bed at night. Desperate to leave for a city which actually had hidden pubs and bars for men like him but unable to leave because service positions were dwindling and no one needed an under butler or would employ a footman with a maimed hand.

He was... lonely. And it seemed like he was staying that way.

\---

By the next week, Andy had almost memorised the entire alphabet and Thomas was beginning to regret offering to teach him, because when he eventually didn’t need Thomas to teach him anymore, he would start to show how much he liked Daisy and Thomas wouldn’t have anyone. Again.

But the look on Andy’s face when he was able to read the headline of that day’s paper was worth it. Slow and stilting, one finger carefully underlining the words as he went and brow furrowed in concentration. “I did it!” Andy beamed up at him. “I read it!”

“Well done,” Thomas smiled back. “You’ll be reading Shakespeare soon.”

“I think I need how to learn to write first,” the younger shrugged bashfully.

Thomas thought he might say that. “That’s a job for another night,” all of a sudden he felt so very tired. He felt like a creaky old man who didn’t like to do anything but sleep.

Andy blinked up at him, frowning again and the under butler had to catch himself before he smoothed out the lines with his fingers. “Are you alright, Thomas?”

“Fine,” he hoped it sounded like it was. “Just tired.” If Andy didn’t believe him he didn’t mention it.

\---

Once the door shut, Thomas froze. He thought of clearing the newspaper and slate off the bed but simply stayed sitting where he was, back against the wall. He blinked and then started at his wet eyes. When had he started crying? Andy was happy; he was doing an entirely good thing for another person which was rare. Carson hadn't been any more of a bastard or Bates any more of an idiot than usual. Mrs Hughes had even quietly complimented him that morning for being so nice to Andy.

Nothing was _wrong_. But not much was _right_ either.

At that, more tears came and Thomas didn't fight them. Maybe it was life. Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was the start of the cold weather that always put him in a bad mood. But he was lonely. Except not even that, really. He was just him. Him who was supposedly Jimmy's best friend but hadn't even got so much as a telegram from him since he had left. Who was left behind by everyone he loved or could have loved. And history would repeat itself with Andy. That drew another sob and another until he was crying silently because he couldn't face making a noise and everyone ignoring it.

A knock at the door was accompanied by a quiet, "Thomas? Are you still awake? I forgot to give you your pencil back." Andy slowly opened the door and Thomas was ashamed to find he didn't even have it in him to try and pretend like he was fine.

"Thomas," he repeated shakily and he knew he must look a mess and steeled himself for the inevitable mocking that was to come. "Thomas," he said again. "Are you alright?"

"No," he answered very quietly. "Not really." The footman stepped closer and sat next to him on top of the duvet and Thomas let out another quiet sob. The object of his affections was right there next to him and it only served to remind him of what he would never get and everyone else could. Wasn't this the reason he had gone to the therapy in the first place? Memories of electricity racing through his limbs drew forth tears and more worried looks from Andy. He put an arm round his shoulders and the elder almost flinched at the close contact.

It had been... well, a while. In fact, not since- Thomas realised he couldn't even remember.

"I'm sure it'll work out alright in the end," Andy's attempts at consolation were in vain but sweet. "My mum always said whatever upsets you will always come out in the wash." Thomas sniffed and wiped his eyes with his now un-gloved left hand. Andy's eyes widened at the before unseen sight of the maimed limb but merely squeezed his shoulders a bit tighter. "It's alright," he promised. "You can talk to me, Thomas, I won't tell anyone. Just like you promised you wouldn't."

"Doesn't matter," Thomas mumbled. "'S nothing."

"It must matter if it's got you all worked up like this," he argued gently. "So spill. I'll stay here all night if I have to."

That was simultaneously the one thing he did and didn't want the most of all. "Carson'll give you bloody hell in the morning if you can't work."

"Sod Carson," that, at least, made the under butler smile slightly. "So c'mon, what is it? Are you sick or something? Because if you are then I'm sure Carson won't mind giving you the day off."

Sick... that was one word for it. That was what almost everyone else thought his feelings for men were.

Andy shifted closer, his hand accidentally brushed against Thomas’ and he closed his eyes as the long fingers came into contact with rough scar tissue. The footman noticed, “Is your hand hurting?” Immediately, he pulled his own back as though it had been burnt. For a second, Thomas considered saying yes. The cold weather would make it hurt soon enough anyway; it wouldn’t be that much of a lie.

But he couldn’t lie, not to Andy. “No,” he answered. “I wish it was that simple.”

Andy frowned again at that and shifted ever closer, hand rubbing his shoulders as tears carried on leaking down Thomas’ cheeks. “Well if you won’t tell me,” he began slowly. “How about I distract you?”

Before the elder man could answer, Andy had grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. Thomas kissed back, though he made it chaste and quick, pulling away. “Next time you plan on doing that at least lock the door first,” he said, still crying and staring at Andy with a shocked expression. His brain finally started working again, “I thought you liked Daisy.”

Andy shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by the elder pulling away, “She’s nice. But she’s not a man. And… she’s not you,” he added the last bit shyly, ducking his head with a smile.

“How did you know I wouldn’t go to the police?” because Thomas wasn’t risking anything anymore. He had never really been reckless before- spare a few occasions- but he had never been an under butler clinging to his job in a time of dwindling servants before, either.

“I didn’t,” he confessed. “But I saw an opportunity and I took it. I thought I could just pretend I was taking the piss, if you didn’t like it. But you kissed me back.” Their eyes met, “You kissed me back.”

Thomas leant forward and carefully, tenderly pressed their lips together, “D’you mind if we take it slowly?”

“Getting old, are we?” Andy teased, pulling him down to lie on the bed before kicking off his shoes and curling up beside him. A grin, “I’d like nothing more than to go slow with you, actually.”

“Good,” Thomas murmured, resting his head on Andy’s shoulder and closing his eyes as the younger wiped the remaining tears away. “Good.”

Andy kissed him one more time, “Goodnight, Thomas.”

“Goodnight, Andy.”


End file.
